Stella was awake when I left.
She wasn't supposed to be. It was 5:50 in the morning, still full dark outside the penthouse windows, and she was sitting on the kitchen counter in her butterfly pyjamas with a glass of water she clearly hadn't gotten up for.
"You're going to work early," she said. It was an accusation.
"I am."
"Are you going to fight someone?"
I thought about it honestly, because she always knew when I didn't. "Kind of. With numbers."
She considered this with the seriousness of a nine-year-old evaluating whether an adult was being ridiculous. "Are numbers hard to fight?"
"Sometimes harder than people."
"Then you should eat breakfast," she decided, and pushed a slightly squashed apple across the counter at me.
I took it. I kissed the top of her head, carried her back to bed, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was asleep again before I reached the door.
'You didn't sleep at all,' Luna observed as the elevator dropped toward the garage.
'I slept.'
